


He Plays the Violin.

by fearless_seas



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, F/F, F/M, M/M, Musicians, Tags and Relationships will be Added
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-25
Updated: 2016-10-21
Packaged: 2018-08-17 05:02:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,371
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8131414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fearless_seas/pseuds/fearless_seas
Summary: Alexander Hamilton doesn't have time for music, that is until he hears a mystery violin player in the stairwell of his building. Unknowing to whom the beautiful musician is, Alexander sets off on a mission to uncover the truth and in doing so falls more in love with the mystery man who plays the violin.





	1. Chapter One | I heard the violin.

**Author's Note:**

> I play eight different instruments (if you wanna know which, comment and I'll tell you!), I started planning this about two weeks ago and wrote up this first chapter in about two hours. I hope you all enjoy!
> 
> \- Presley.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alexander hears the beautiful for the first time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title is based off of the song, "He Plays the Violin", from the musical 1776.

**September 22nd**

          It never takes much for Alexander Hamilton to snap. This time, it takes only a sentence. That’s how he found himself: legs kicked back, up in the air, his upper body lunged, curled over a table. If this was a movie- _cue the slow motion scene_. Flailing in the air, he tilted his head to the side right on time before his collar bone slammed itself into a sharp set of hipbones and he shut his eyes propelling with the moment of impact. Sounds faded to black noise, as his hands gripped in iron the shirt riding at the back of the counterpart.

          The taller of the two tripped, hulling with the dead weight of Alexander’s sprint and they toppled over backwards onto the ground, quickly sitting back up onto their elbows. A crowd gathered, definitely not what they envisioned when they sighed up for American Government with George Washington at Columbia University. A growl deep rooted in the rear of his throat and took sprout as his lighter frame and shorter stature attempted meekly to hold the 6 foot 2 and a half inch male to the ground. It did not work and after only seconds of his legs buckling around his contrary's waist, he was flipped over onto his back, the giant’s knee pinning his legs down; this of course did not stop Alexander as he huffed loudly, wailing his fists in the air in combat. He could swear one of them made contact with their ear. 

         Soon, he gave up and dropped his arms to the ground in defeat, the agonizing pain of defeat sifting through out him. He blew a strand of dark brown hair that had loosened itself from his messy ponytail onto his sweaty flushed forehead, attempting to regain his self control. The whispers from the other members of Washington’s class sounded louder, screaming at him in mock as he lay helpless on the ground in misery.

          Brown eyes licked agonizingly slow from the long blue jeaned ankles dominating his legs down, up to a wine colored suit shirt, ascending towards midnight caramel skin, an open neck with bristly, short, neat, stubble as an Adam's apple bobbed rhythmically in the column of their throat. Then, his gaze settled, wide brown eyes peered down at him from above, long black eyelashes fluttering in contrast like a fan against sharp cheekbones. Alexander’s cheeks oscillated into a pink, their face was so close that if he maneuvered his head up- he could kiss him, count his eyelashes one by one and watch them hypnotically. Their long curly hair fluffed down, curling in between them like a wall of vine and ivy.

         Thomas Jefferson.

        _“Alexander!”_

         A sharp shrill cry caused the blood boiling in Alexander’s system to turn to hard ice, and he swallowed hard on his pride. Jefferson clambered off of him, standing up and brushing his hands over his jeans. He vestiged back as Washington’s booted stomp made it’s way to block the florescent lighting illuminating and blinding him overhead. His vision cleared, as he raised a feeble arm to block the glossy shine coming down from above. Washington’s eyebrows were knit at the center in anger, hands firmly digging white impresses into his hips.

          Alexander was always short. When he was younger, in the Caribbean, every month his Mother’s proud clap congratulated his older brother James on another inch, an additional red mark etched into the cracking paint. While her hopeful voice maintained positive as Alexander stretched his neck and arched his back, “You’re still the same height, baby”. 5’7 was not a very accomplished height to complete at but as Alexander lay on his back on the ground he felt even more minuscule as another 6’2 male towered over him in stature. The rosy complexion of the immigrant cheeks dimmed to white.

         “Oh- I, hi”.

⚀⚁⚂⚃⚄⚅

 

         “Kicked out of class again?”

         Alexander slammed his laptop down on the linoleum table top with such force it vibrated, collapsing his knees and bouncing his foot up and down as the hypertension seeping in his bones begged for release. He huffed, pouting his lip slightly, not looking Hercules in the eye and watching the man across from him lick the frosting off of his thumb before slipping the pencil out from behind his ear and tapping it against a neat sketch book.

         “I’ll just take that as a yes”, Hercules’s voice was muffled by the pencil’s eraser being nibbled on by his front teeth. Alexander felt his eyes roll, not intending them too and he rested his head on his hand. Behind him, a coffee machine coughed, blowing out a sharp outtake of air and the brown liquid pooled into a coffee cup. Outside the coffee shop, a car horn beeped, catching his attention and he followed the noise, watching a blonde female in a red dress throw her arms up in retort at the cars accident honk. This made a chuckle buzz past Alexander’s lips and he drummed his finger's tips against the side of his cheek in amusement.

         His gaze switched from the commotion outside to the knit tight expression of the person across from him. He tilted his head, trying to see what the delicate pencil lines that Hercules was crafting were creating. “What are you working on?”, always the curious jolt of energy racking through him.

         As if Hercules was anticipating this moment, he immediately dropped his pencil and traced the pencil indentations with his forefinger, checking for mistakes before rotating the sketchpad in Alexander’s direction. Alexander laced his fingers in front of himself, studying the artwork. It was a dress, neatly printed writing was in cursive noting out the various details. It was a beautiful dress, a quick glance at the side boxed notes and he switched his pupils, zeroing in on the mid section. It was to be in white lace trim, with yellow silk triangled down from the shoulders to the center of the hands. The model looked familiar.

         “Just wait till I color it!”, the white of Hercules’s eyes widened up with excitement as he leaned over, fumbling with multiple zippers on his backpack before tearing out a rectangle, metal box with various stickers peeling black off the glistening metal. The box was opened and he reached over blindly, grabbing the faded notebook back and corralling a yellow pencil. With carefulness that only ever came from Hercules, he shaded the white flow extending off of the stenciled design. The notebook was passed back and Alexander took it in again.

         “Lemme guess, Peggy?” a smirk peeled apart the corners of his mouth.

         Hercules pointed down at the picture with his eyes as if begging Alexander to take another long look at the art. “It’s her birthday next week”, he grinned mechanically and Alexander knew the flutter that was flapping in Hercules’s chest at the lovely attraction. The smile faded from his skin, and his lips pressed into a firm line, biting anxiously at the inner flesh of his cheek, Alexander was tempted to graze Hercules's nail beds just to see if he'd been biting them lately, “Do you think she’ll like it?”, appreciation.

         Alexander scratched at the peeling paper, “I don’t know…”

         Hercules’s shoulders fell in dismay and a soft sigh breathed out his nose.

         “I’m kidding! I’m kidding- Peggy will love it”, Alexander put up his hands in mock surrender, the other shook his head in disapproval before smiling down at the dress with admiration. “I’ll probably head to the shop tonight and pull out all the fabrics I need- you’re welcome to come, I think Angelica might stop by, she said the seams of her jean jacket were loosening- it’ll only take like ten minutes to fix”. His fingers found their way to the lemon frosted cupcake sitting with only a tiny corner left. _That lonely corner._ Hercules picked it up with his nails, popping it into his mouth and using a previously used napkin with graphite stains on it to wipe the crumbs off the corner of his mouth.

         A comfortable silence waded over the two and Alexander scrapped the toe of his checkered vans over the tiled floor. The bell above the door rang out an announcing tone and the cashier took her place again at the register, passing the guy at the bar stools with a  black guitar case strapped to his back a look of dread at leaving their conversation. The consultation with the customer dawned, and the guitar player left. He jerked his eyes away at this loss. 

        “Do you want some coffee or something?”, Hercules offered, sweeping into his bag to pull out his wallet and bough out a five dollar bill. Since Hercules was the eldest of their group at twenty five, he always felt the untiring obligation to always be the one to pay, John was nineteen, Lafayette was eighteen and Alexander himself was eighteen. Alexander rattled his head, shoving the five back across the table, “Not hungry…” he reflected for only a second not to seem suspicious, “...Aaron bought us both donuts this morning”, he lied, a flinch of guilt stabbing into the cavity of his chest, using his roommate as a way to get out of it. Hercules eyed him for a minute, narrowing his vision before shrugging it off.

         “So, what did Thomas do this time?”.

⚀⚁⚂⚃⚄⚅

 

         An hour later, Alexander found his legs carrying him across campus to his dorm room building. The books in his back weighing down his shoulder and stopped every few seconds to hoist the heavy weight higher up onto his shoulder for better grip. The wind billowed through his hair and fraying strands blew, tickling against his goosebump pricked neck as he peregrinated. His shoes crunched over newly, fallen, Autumn, leaves. Damn, he hated winter, he mused resentfully, regretting his choice of t-shirt this day. He longed for the warm, sunny beaches of the Caribbean he had been in only just years ago.

          A longing panged in his dismal chest, aching for familiarity. New York city was so very divergent from the quaint civilian cobble stone streets of his old, crumbling home on the tropic island of Nevis. The sea air softening the red brick, he commemorated distinctly the deep crack rooting itself in years of stories at the headboard of his bed. As a child, his Mother constantly tucked him into bed, nestling the covers underneath his chin, “Alexander, don’t forget to pray before you sleep, you don’t want the house to fall down in the middle of the night now, don’t you?”. Alexander hadn’t prayed since the day she died. He never intended to do so again.

         Finally at his building, he skimmed the pads of his fingers against the surface of a bench on the campus of Columbia University, digging his key out from the trash filled pockets of his washed out gray sweatpants, accidentally knocking an old power bar wrapper onto the concrete. He balanced his full, cumbersome bag and flicked his hair over his shoulder, yelping slightly as a few fibers tugged on his scalp. The gold colored key slipped into the lock of the eleven story building and using his foot, kicked open the door and skipped inside.

          The clock in the hallway ticked mechanically, striking three on the dot and his neck tightened, so much work and so little time to do it. Well maybe, if Jefferson didn’t sit there with his long hair and his calm nature, his wide eyes and his stupid smirk, Alexander wouldn’t have to get to angry all of the damn time. There was always a matter of fact tone that pulverized Lafayette’s conflictions with Alexander’s dislike for the Virginian.

         _“Mon amie, you only hate him so because he is your equal”_

_“How so?”_

_“You both have never won a debate against one another”_

_“That’s because before someone can argue their way to win, I was the conflicting need to punch his smug face”_

_“But have either of you ever won against one another?”_

_“No…”_

_Lafayette raised an eyebrow, “My point exactly”._

         Alexander shook the pulsating reasoning in his scrutiny away before using his free hand and smashing his thumb against the elevator button. It blinked, illuminating dull orange, a loud pop merged and the light flicked off. “Fuck- not again”, Alexander rotated his eyes and pressed his thumb against the button again, and then again, and again, of course again, did he forget, _again_? Until it was only rage coursing threw his circuit and his knuckles punched against the button to no change and Alexander sobbed in annoyance, _can anything ever go right for him?_  

          He turned his heels away and heading for the large stairwell door on the right of the broken elevator, Alexander knew in that moment when he pressed his back against heavy door, huffing and puffing out breaths of ignorance that everything was constantly mocking him seldomly.

         It was a flight and a half flight of stairs with the blood pounding methodically in his ears, beating like a drum that he felt his knees buckle and rested. How was he expected to get to the seventh floor when he could only make it up barely two? He felt disappointed and pulled his bag off of his shoulders, wincing at the stinging brink and the sweat clinging to the back of his gray t-shirt. Alexander breathed out a sigh, his chest moving up and down and he closed his eyes recognizing truly how tired he really was. With aching bones inclined his head against the side of the stairwell walls.

         That’s when he heard it.

         The blood pounding in his eardrums ceased and he could hear. Around him, echoing in the musty, wet-paint smelling air wafting around him he could hear it. A stringed instrument, coming from above in the stairwell. He didn’t mean to, but his head bobbed to the sound of a  _violin_? Stringing out a mass of beautiful methodical chords. He tilted his chin, the music surrounding him in a cloud, he couldn’t control himself. The bubble of pressure that had built itself in the hallow of his chest did not pop, but simply sucked in itself and disappeared, he could breath and the notes of the violin coming from somewhere- he didn’t know, shrouded his heart in a cloud of emotional beauty. Beautiful.

          The melody of the violin evolved, and the emotional chorale of notes transformed to a passionate, heartfelt symphonic harmony- it was everywhere. His eyes remained closed, the pain bedding into his shoulder blades subsided and he willed himself to sing. His lips parted, but no sound emerged the vacant opening, not wishing to interrupt the alluring harmony. Who knew you would hear your soul on one fated day with a broken elevator and an excessive backpack? To be able to feel the raw emotion the violin forged inside of him.

         As soon as the passionate verse grew lethargic, the emotional plucking drew back in breathes of warmth, roasting his heart once again. He thought of his Mother, and as the chords swam afore the shadows pooling in his fastened eyelids. The chords danced forming into a spectacle of his Mother, they released from one another and came together to form a new person, a recent memory, a topical lifeline. Eliza’s long black hair and red lipped giggle mixed in his visage, her face apart when the notes clamored set to form just another, John’s wide grin, and freckles that opened like stars to another galaxy dotted the darkness between his eyelids and his heart

         Just before the music climax subsided, and silence lulled in the air around him, the white notes swiftly like quicksilver blinked at him with long eyelashes, full lips and long curly brown hair, eyebrow raised before the lips opened the air and they blowed, snapping and turning to sand in his vision. The music was gone.

         Alexander's eyes patent, a tugging sensation on his heart at the music left his surroundings, his legs failed to comply as he desperately yearned to chase the person flights up playing with such beauty. But Alexander was stuck, his foot twitching in confusion. Mind telling him to run, to get the person. But his heart was busy, the culled fanatic on his ribs drank away his breath, and he truly understood what it felt like to be utterly breathless from the beauty of an individual.

          Craving ached and his body finally moved, he could feel his mind reacting like fireworks and his arm worked with the flow as he pounding a fist against his chest. The passion of minutes was gone, Alexander desperately wanted the sound. But it was gone, and he was left in an empty stairwell with nothing but his own high puffing at the base of his neck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes for this chapter:  
> \- As you can tell a little bit, Alexander has a bit of anger management issues (It'll really bite him back in the end).  
> \- In this Alexander is eighteen and in his sophomore year at Columbia University.  
> \- Hercules is twenty-five and is already graduated and used to go to Columbia (he already own his own tailoring shop).  
> \- Peggy is eighteen and in her freshman year at Pace University.  
> \- Alexander Hamilton and Hercules Mulligan went to Kings College which is today Columbia University.  
> \- Thomas Jefferson was actually 6'2.5 and George Washington was 6'2 in real life.  
> \- Alexander Hamilton was 5'7 in real life.  
> \- Peggy and Hercules are dating.  
> \- It was actually Peggy Schuyler birthday on September 24th.  
> \- Aaron Burr and Alexander Hamilton are roommates.  
> \- Mon amie = my friend  
> \- Thomas Jefferson actually was amazing at violin, cello and piano. He also did singing when he was a kid.


	2. Chapter Two | The violin stole my voice.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Alexander rants about the music to his amigos.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When I started writing this story I basically wrote an outline for the entire story and I have every single chapter planned. I didn't expect this chapter to be so short- it just kind of ended up that way. I apologize!
> 
> \- Presley.

**September 23rd**

         Eliza’s fingers tugged at the strands of dark brown hair on top of Alexander’s head. Every few seconds managing to mutter out, “Wash your damn hair Alexander- don’t just get it wet”. The pads and nails scraping at the surface of the skin on his scalp, threading the locks together to form a firm, neat, braid that ringleted down the base of his neck, just brushing his shoulder blades. Alexander never took the time to cut his hair, he really didn’t care, he liked his hair long. Eliza respired, and brushed some few fraying strands behind his ear before fastening the tumbling end of the braid into a lock that cascaded down his spine.

         “You guys don’t understand...”, Alexander persevered his previous rhetoric. It had been almost an hour now and this was Eliza’s fourth attempt at a braid; Alexander just would not cease movement. He was postured on the floor of Eliza and Maria’s apartment, which was only several blocks away from his University. Maria wasn’t home at the moment, it was only himself, Eliza, Angelica and Peggy to occupy the area.

          “It was…” he did not have a single composition to describe the amorous infliction, a stranger feeling bubbled in his chest, threatening to burst. “...I don’t have a word”. There was an audited gasp across the room, and Alexander’s eyes shifted away from his own pride to watch Peggy snorting crosswise in the living room. She was on her back, her feet propped up against the arm of the couch and her just-too-long-for-her-shoes shoelaces were wrapped twice around her ankles like they were a president.

         To admit exasperated shock, she covered her mouth with her hand and widened her eyes. “Alexander Hamilton, doesn’t have a word?”. Her curly brown hair was secured into a messy ponytail and her somber eyes lit up with the glory. Alexander at no time did he ever break in his declamation, he could admit. _Why would he stop talking when there was just so much to talk about?_   She shifted in her seat, rotating towards where she was hunkered consecutive and flopped her legs out onto the coffee table. Eliza cast her a disapproving look before Peggy sarcastically, “Okay Mom’ed” her legs shimmy off the table.

         “Did I just hear that Alexander is speechless?”, Angelica soon joined into the facade as she padded out from the kitchen carrying a paper bag of thin mints before settling on the floor against the base of the couch. Eliza’s fingers scratched harder at his skin and Alexander knew that she was carrying a load tenseness pressed behind her firm lips. The immigrant’s eyes undulated and his eyebrows secured into a narrow line of irritation.

         There was a reticent lull that reverberated around the air vicinity the four, enveloping them in quietude and solitary comfort. The occasional rustling from the bag and obnoxious chewing could be heeded. He didn’t even auscultate Eliza as she lugged on his hair once more before whooping out, “Done!”. Peggy ungracefully fluffed her way off of the couch to marvel at Eliza’s work.

         She paused, and Eliza bit her lip in anticipation tearing at the flesh with her teeth. “You could have done a little better…” Peggy mocked cheekily, planting a solid hand on her hip. Alexander didn’t even seem to notice the engrossment. “Ow!” Peggy hissed, slapping a hand against her forearm and groaning. A previous slug echoed around the full room. “What the fuck was that for?”

         Eliza crossed her arms across her chest, intersecting the room and stealing Peggy’s place on the couch, in turn leaning down and ripping the bag of chocolates from Angelica’s grasp, “Hey!” she cried in protest, slinking from the floor.

         “Peggy, not all of us are taking cosmetology, okay?”, Eliza simpered, a susceptible brow raised elegantly, before reaching into the bag and pulling out a handful of the sweets and stuffing them into her mouth indecently. Reluctantly, Peggy flattened to the other arm of the couch, slinking onto the floor opposite from Angelica. "And Angelica- don't eat all of Maria's sweets", Angelica muffled out a grumble of disappointment. 

         The world seemed seldom to Alexander, his consciousnesses in a constant whir, attempting to find a word. Any verse, something with rhythm. The violin berated into his skull, cranium hammering with longing. He oh-so desperately wished to hearken to that song. The previous teasing and mockery farced with the tender strings rooting into his heart. His perception drew a blank and he let his stiff legs out in front of him, participating out the cracks and burns in his legs from sitting that position for so long. Ears burning with liquid shame, the world around him, he ignored, searching and searching his-

          “Hypnotizing!” He cried, throwing up his arms, “No no! Hypnotizing!” he yammered out, silence befalling them once again. A conclusion sifted through him. The three afore him broke out into curious smiles before flashing him their sympathetic glances.

         “It really was that amazing, huh”, Angelica broke the silence, cherishing Alexander’s rare momentary silence and Peggy bowed along with the groove.

         Eliza pandered nether at Angelica, “I bet you if Alex could marry a sound, he’d marry that violin”, she admitted a chuckle and fondly admiring the fire boiling in the brims of his eyelids.

         Before he could answer, his mouth was forced shut once again by lack of a language to dialect. Angelica soughed, her head cocking to the subsidiary, “And the musician?”, this caused a momentary pang of confusion to settle upon Alexander’s shoulders, weighing them down. “If you knew who the musician is, would you marry them?”

         The notes from the music swam in the pool of his eyes again.

  
        “Right on sight”.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Maria and Eliza are dating in case you guys didn't catch that. But yeah, some notes:  
> \- Eliza can pretty much get away with whatever she wants.  
> \- Peggy is eighteen, Angelica is twenty, and Eliza is nineteen.  
> \- Alexander is eighteen just in case you guys forgot. I hope you guys enjoyed this chapter! Kudos and comments are highly appreciated.


	3. Chapter Three | In which one becomes lost.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alexander hears the violin once again, this time he's lost. A set of determination marking him up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so tired after writing this. Sorry this is kind of a repeat of Chapter one, but next chapter you'll get a bite of something different. Before I wrote this story I had all thirty chapters planned out. Yes, that's why I never hit writers block. I also just finished watching the Hamilton documentary- that was one of the most spectacular things I have ever watched.
> 
> \- Presley.

**September 30th.**

         It’s been a week. An expanded, length week. Temptation striking him at a ticking manner. He could not forget, as hard as he tried oh-so desperately to dissmiss the violin plucking ruthlessly at the nimble strings inside of his heart; they burst into flames of bright blue. The million degree heat licking the inside of the catacomb. Alexander wondered if his heart was an empty box- a desolate room. The lust and loneliness in crates stacking up in the room. The walls painted blue with misconception

         Washington’s class was causing his energy laced fingers to grip his pen loosely, the ink etching into the margins of his notebook paper. His voice droning into vague background noise with flurry. His pen finished drawing another tornado into the paper before, wrists jerked, leading him. The pen followed drawing out a series of music notes hovering above the words he’d written already. Alexander could almost imagine them in real life. 

          The notes from the stranger violin were coming into real life- Alexander felt his eyes shut with exhaustion. Blackness surrounding him, he tried to picture the angelic player. A body, the perfect hands, the face blurred out in the perception. His throat buzzed, chasing them as they ran, the chord tuning and turning a corner, voice longing to call to them, speak to him. Alexander’s mouth parted to form words, the vocals in his chest humming to exasperation-

         “Alexander?”

         His eyes flinched as they came into contact with the light surrounding him, a blinding brood to reality. The figure towering above him fluttering down at him with chocolate eyes, soft, concerning. Alexander blinked several times, reality settling in the pit of his stomach like a flock of bitter butterflies. The artist was gone, and his eyes were ample patent. The hand on his shoulder squeezed the flesh as if pinching someone from a walking dream. 

        “Class is over, son”. Washington. Alexander acted owlish for a few moments before taking in his enclosing. He groaned, the creases in his back aching- had he fall asleep? “Everyone is already gone”.

         A protest usually decimated on his lips, _I’m not your son. Last time somebody called me son, they left, I don’t need you to leave too._ His mouth would not part to form the words, he stayed silent through his grievances. The hand on his shoulder ushered another reassuring squeeze, “Are you alright, Alexander?”. Caribbean bound, he was again in another turn at a loss for contentions; he breathed out a sighed, the air billowing in his lungs. His chin quivered, his head vibrating up and down. A silent nod. 

         The warmth on his skin depleted and cold subsided on his surface, the large, thick fingers slid off of his shoulder and he rotated the joint to circulate movement once again. Washington turned away from him, casting a singular glance over his shoulder. Alexander folded his notebook shut, the drawing fading into the many pages of white. Like a soldier, Washington’s legs maintained their parallel stance as he strided towards the board on stiff and postured footing. 

          Alexander, losing himself in his own mind once again, watched Washington extend an appendage out, wrapping his fingers around the chalk board eraser. A muscular arm incremated and the lecture disappeared off the board, to his dismay. So distracted by the memories he hadn’t payed attention all of class.  The eraser was returned to wrack, the dust billowing off of it in tiny, chalky clouds. Washington deviated, propensing his biceps, heels digging serrated into his wooden desk. A coffee cup nestled in the corner read, "Martha's favorite", in bold curly lettering, the corny aptitude almost made him cower.

          “Alexander, are you sure you’re okay?”. Alexander didn’t expatiate but dawned movement again, stuffing his stained binder into his backpack- it didn't fit and the veins in his neck popped with annoyance. He managed a slight bow- it was not very convincing. His teacher chewed the inside of his lip, he conveyed all of his emotions with his mouth instead of his brows. “You may stay in the hall if you’d like Mr. Hamilton, but I’m heading to lunch”, this became apparent by the ginger, leather, messenger bag he was throwing the loop over his shoulder. 

         “No- no, sir- that’s okay, I’ll leave right now”, Alexander zipped up the pockets before straining to lug it up onto his back. The apple Washington was holding between two fingers seemed puny compared to his digits, the bite between his teeth was reluctantly chewed as he judged him inactively, peering him over. Without another consultation, the immigrant wiped his forehead with the sleeve of his shirt, the fluorescent lighting above him was beginning to make him cringe in his sleep deprived percipience. 

          Crossing the room, his eyes glimpsed slightly, gliding over the empty desks of his peers, they caught on a familiar second row seat. A grin managed to peak the edges of his mouth into a smirk. Thomas always flashed him a scowl as he shook out his mane of curly cinnamon hair, searching for spit balls. He never blew any back. Whatever.  He hoisted his bag higher on his shoulder for a better grip, fingers skimming against the metal frame of the door. “

         Alexander-”, he froze, paused in his leave, “Do try to take care of yourself”. 

          The voice behind him snapped on another bite of crisp, red, apple. He winced, sleep devolution irritating his ears before heading out.

 

⚀⚁⚂⚃⚄⚅

 

He was disappointed. Systematic loneliness bit at him rough in the cavity of his chest, the weather outside nipping at his ears. He burrowed lower in his sweatshirt, attempting to hide from the cold that was consuming him. It was still September, he didn’t want to leaves to fall from the trees just yet. Alexander willed summer sun to soak into his tanned skin. No. A brush of wind caused the leaves to swirl around his feet, dancing with him. _Join us_ , they called. Puckering his lips, he ignored those temptation cries before kicking the titian leaves in his path with displeasure. The corners were still green. They missed verano as well. 

         The scarf he’d lazily thrown over his neck on this morning, wrapped around his neck, drafting back as the wind passed him by. Evening sun was blastoff to dawn on the city, the sun lowering on the horizon, covered by the skyscrapers. Through the peaking corners, rays of peach and coral dominated the heavens above- a spectacular sight the city blocked from his prospect. A scowl permeated on his visage. 

          His crumbling brick house in Nevis allowed an extravagant contour of the beautiful, dazzling mirage. Sometimes, it was the little things he missed: the sultry sand slinking in between his toes, giggles and cries of children echoed in the cobblestone streets. Another simper he threatened cessated into his features, it was a musing ambiguous.

         Alexander’s hand came to rest on the brass handle of his building. His numb fingers dug deep into his sweatpants pockets, gathering out a key to match the lock and slipping it into the grooves of the door. It fit, and using his foot he let himself in. With no sleep resting unceasingly on his mind, for the first time in almost a week since the first time the violin invaded his senses, he was able to forget for just a second. His checkered vans squeaked against the tiled floor leading the elevator. The textbook underneath his arm was advancing a cramp in his flesh. He screwed his mouth shut to mask the pain mincing in his emotions. 

            Coming to the elevator at the end of the hall, Alexander balanced on one foot before hiking a hand on press against the exterior button. His fingers paused mid air, his foot came down and he retracted his arm. A sorrow breathed past his pale lips, it was broken and it wasn’t going to get fixed for another several days, or weeks or even months... _years?_  A surge of anger pumped throughout his body, circulating towards all of his organs. The heaviness lurking on his shoulder mocked him, teething with disposition. Alexander was not a very athletic person per say. He’d rather write ten thousand words than feel as if his limbs were going to fall off. 

         This arose contradictions towards his friend group. Everyone he knew was athletic- accept of course himself. He was not modestly proclaiming that he was weak in any sort of way, he was not- not mentally at least, that he’d admit. The elevator teemed with muerte, his stomach became firm, palms sweating as he fumed out a loud grunt. It echoed around the halls and rebounding back to him with less of a force. The metal doors leading the staircase seethed with temptation. Blades in recession, an effortless grace, he infiltrated the stairwell.

 

⚀⚁⚂⚃⚄⚅

 

         Alexander will mention again that he was a sleep dispossessed mess. That does not make up for the excuse of why he obliterated his own destiny within just an occasion ago. Just barely one staircase into the stairwell of his building, his heart was genesis to purr, radiating and vibrating in his chest. At first a evanescent pang of panic seized him, was he having a heart attack? After a while his legs had gotten used to the tightening around his thighs, calfs and hamstrings. The blood pounding in his ears subsided, commencing to break to normalization in his ear drums. 

          _How hadn’t he noticed it sooner?_ Alexander stumbled, his body lurching forward, tripping on a stair that his loose toed shoe had caught on inelegantly. The books laced into his forearm slicked underneath, tumbling to the linoleum in a messy heap. Alexander sighed before stepping down a few steps to pick up one of his fallen. “Fucking- I swear to god…”, he muttered menacingly underneath his breath to himself. Like his heart just secondary ago, his ears began to vibrate with excitement. “What the fuck is wrong now?”, he teemed with disappointment in himself. Tsk tsk. 

         Alexander leaned down, arching his back to pick up the last notebook, the pages with a messy scrawl flipping open, he seemed and fingers turned to close to the open notebook. Something blocked him dead in his tracks. The writing, hanging like stars on an open sky, above the words jotted down on his open page. Music notes. It clicked in his brain instantly, he stepped back in shock, his heart palpitating and bursting in his chest. He drew a breath through tightly clenched teeth, holding it. His eyes scrolling at rapid paces throughout the text. Dawning on him like a sea of realization. The music filled his ears. 

         The violin encompassed the air suffocating the stairwell. The breath trapped behind tightly clenched lips was causing his throat to swell with confabulations. The fluctuations from the lyrics becoming his shadow, the melody tracing a line around his figure. His feet prepared to move- this time he wasn’t going to miss his chance. If he was sane, he would have stopped that few seconds to reach to the floor to grab his notebook- but tempting striking him like a liberty bell, the notebook he left. His legs struggled to commence movement, his psyche drawing a virginal and become dark with images. Without even realizing it, his eyes were shutting, and harmony grounding him guided his feet. The rubber of his shoes skidding against the tips of the stairs with paralysis. 

         Alexander Hamilton reached floor two as the violin strummed lustier, the summary becoming inconsistent, irregular the passion or anger sweet in his blood like sap. He craved to drink up the notes, lap up the passion. It was there, he just needed to find it. Alexander found his passion in this. Anger biting at his temperament with striking ambition. Behind fasted eyes, the darkness pooling in his vision turned sultry to the displeasure, slice of revolt stabbing into his grasp. 

         Music guiding him like a blind dog, Alexander Hamilton reached floor three as the mood was revolving. A pre-chorus chorale of defining, the rich crimson seldom moments ago biting it’s raw teeth into his stomach was out setting to build. It was not growing more angry, only the passion was building to the climactic reprise. The colors in his pupils oscillated from the rich dahlia mono to a wandering craven. Like lava, the edges of ruby were transforming The language, it’s body, a person dancing before his eyes like a alluring symbol. Their lips jerked, prosperity, grace. 

         Feet lead. Alexander Hamilton reached floor four when a final build accumulated. Butterscotch brinked into shamrock and shamrock coughed on a mint. The color spectrum suckled with the raw emotion asphyxiating his heart. He felt as if he couldn’t breathe, not in the old way. It was new, he could breathe in a new, magnificent aura of postulation. He’s seen the shades between his eyes before, he’d seen them everyday. He’d never seen his invulnerability in such a way before. The violin allowed him to see the light, he could see it like a bright blue magnet drawing him in without any remorse towards satisfactory glances. 

         Alexander Hamilton reached floor five when the climax arrived. The build, he saw them all now. Through his closed eyes, blocking out the world to only see the beautiful in the magnificent culmination. He felt home, the shimmering chords they echoed around him grew into a pair of large arms, taller than him, stronger than he’ll ever be. Wrapped around his chest, they were a protection, a sanctuary build in his prism. The life christened, he fancied those arms around him for the rest of his life. It was so vociferous, so golden, so crystal. He’d never seen it before, but now it was there. 

         Alexander Hamilton reached floor six when the falling action took place. The symphony drew breath, casting a sip. Blinking in front of his vision, the duskiness pooled in front of his irises flickering at him with elongated, hooked eyelashes, full lips tantalizingly slowly blowing him a kiss of demise. The resolution culminating. There was no resolution. His eyes shuddered open. A spark reverberated through his body like a shock wave, a ripple in a pond. A large number six painted in pain sneakingly robotic letters. There was not a resolution to his conflict. 

         Numbness towered his limbs. He was lost for control, too numb to feel enraged, too numb to feel the depression, too numb to couldn’t feel the shaking simulation in the pads of his fingers. Tips longing to scratch the wood of that string. It was over, the music at filled the air only seconds ago was now gone. Gone and Alexander was left with no resolution, no conclusion. He felt empty. Dizziness apprehended him. His chest deflated as the music disintegrated into dust, slipping through his fingers and he couldn’t catch the grains. 

         He slumped against the wall, sliding down and balling his fists, the heels of his hands pressing hard and long on the temples of his forehead. He felt empty. A satisfying fill that settled him into the brink of demolition was now gone. He was lost, Alexander was lost for his intellect, lost for his words. If he’d only not allowed himself to become so transformed by the melodic tones, he would have raced on able footing to the level where the violin player played. This player did not _play_ , this person _mastered_. Mastered a form of angelicy without words, without movements with grand sultry charismatic earthquakes. The fault rocked through his aching, shaking bones. 

         Alexander sat up, his feet not willing to comply. He scowled. 

  
         Who was the violin player?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I tend to sometimes fall in love with some writing that I do. This is another instance where I have fallen in love. But my Young and Beautiful series I have fallen for the harder. I am most in love with that series (almost as much as I am in love with the first chapter of Vanilla Skies!). If you pay attention to my writing and have read some of the other stuff, you can notice that I have a distinct writing style and pattern- it sounds different than everyone else's stuff that I had read. I am quite proud of my writing. If you're wondering, Alexander is a sophomore at Columbia University in this story. 
> 
> \- Presley.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm Presley, I've been a history buff since age nine and a writer since age six, my Tumblr is @sonofhistory If you wanna talk history or just wanna talk, come find me!. 
> 
> \- Presley.


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